


Falls From the Sky Like a Star

by one_of_those_crushing_scenes



Series: Mind Games [3]
Category: Avengers (Comics), Black Widow (Comics), Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: F/M, Glove Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Reunion Sex, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 06:14:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13070829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_of_those_crushing_scenes/pseuds/one_of_those_crushing_scenes
Summary: It’s never been this easy, not with anyone else.





	Falls From the Sky Like a Star

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song "Dizzy" by Goo-Goo Dolls, because no one expresses angst like alt rock bands from the 90s.
> 
> This one-shot takes place just after Chapter 13 of [Who Do You Think You Are](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12084837/). After wrapping up the mission, everyone goes to their rooms to catch up on "sleep."

“Leave the gloves on,” Natasha says.

James looks down at the hand she’s placed on his chest. They're both in costume, coming out of a debriefing right after a mission that began with a twenty-six-hour stakeout. They desperately need showers, and more importantly, naps, but what she's craving right now is option C. The adrenaline is buzzing through her veins, demanding release, ever since that damned meeting where he sat across the table and made eyes at her.

Now he holds out his arms in a show of surrender. “Whatever the lady says.”

“Good.” She hooks a finger into one of his chest straps and pulls him to her, and their mouths meet in a kiss. Finally, finally, they have time for this, hours that they can spend alone rediscovering each other, now that she has her memories of him back, after all this time.

“Missed you so much,” James says, breathless, between kisses.

“We just did this two days ago,” she retorts, although that barely counts, as rushed as it was. A quickie squeezed into a single free half hour between her getting her memories back and going back out on a mission.

“I know, I've been dying since then,” he says with a laugh.

Kissing him without remembering him—well, she's not going to deny it, it was fun, they had chemistry even then, but it wasn't the same. She knew even then that if she took him to bed they would have a good time, but this? The trust she has in him, the way he knows every part of her, including the parts that she's not proud of, and he doesn't try to whitewash her past—or even her present—that he doesn't ask her to tone down who she is for his comfort, that he doesn't second-guess her judgment—this is almost an unimaginable experience, this kind of love.

It’s never been this easy, not with anyone else. With James, she never has that worry in the back of her mind: _Am I living up to my reputation? Am I making this worth his while?_ Sex has always had a performative aspect for her, and that's not to say that she hasn't enjoyed it, but with James, she can just let go and get out of her head while they’re together.

He lowers his lips to her neck, kissing at the sensitive skin there, but her costume doesn't allow much access, so she unzips it down to her belly and pulls the top off her shoulders to give him room to work. She can feel him smiling against her skin as she pulls at the sleeves, trying to take them off without setting off the Widow's Bite pieces on her bracelets as she removes them—this is the downside of post-mission sex, but so far she's never caused _that_ kind of explosion—

She gets her hands free without incident, and brings them back up behind his neck. Now she's only wearing a bra on top, and he's completely dressed, and the buckles on his chest press against her skin, which is lovely and makes her want to rub up against him like a cat. 

“Natasha, Natasha,” James whispers reverently into her skin, setting soft bites against her collarbone, making her gasp. 

He backs her up against a dresser, a plain, unadorned piece of furniture where she keeps a few changes of clothing and an older costume for emergencies. It also happens to be the perfect height, and she hops up, balancing on the edge of the dresser, her feet finding purchase on the handle of the top drawer. She gets the rest of her suit off, kicks it to the floor, and beckons him over.

“Hey,” he says, taking a step forward, positioning himself between her legs. His pants tickle the soft hairs on her inner thighs, and they rest their foreheads against each other, relishing the anticipation. Their hands meet in the middle, and he brushes his gloved thumbs along the inside of her palms.

“Hey,” she says, smiling at him.

“What were you saying about the gloves?” he asks innocently, brushing her hair off her shoulders and pulling the unlined cups of her bra down to bare her breasts. He covers them with his hands and looks up at her face, warm brown eyes meeting hers, grinning at her as he cups and lifts her breasts. The stiff leather of the gloves feels wonderful against her soft skin, and she arches into his hands, letting him see how much she loves his touch. God, she wants him so badly. “You like them?”

“They’re,” she arches further and sighs, “all right.”

“Uh-huh.” There’s a gleam in James’s eye. Next thing she knows, he’s got his hands on the band of her underwear, which he tugs down to mid-thigh. Instinctively, her legs fall apart—as much as can be managed without ripping fabric, and he reaches one hand between her legs and opens up her labia with gloved fingers.

He wears these on the job, she’s sure he doesn’t do more than spot clean them, and she should, by all rights, not be so turned on by this... but on the other hand, who cares? She can’t get sick, and the leather glides so smoothly between her slick folds. She tips her head all the way back, rests it against the wall, exhaling a moan.

“If you could see yourself now.” His free hand moves to her midriff, fingers skimming along the soft, sensitive skin there, while his left hand keeps working at her. He strokes her cunt with his knuckles, with his thumb, always gentle, always teasing, making her want more. “I’ve got you, Natalia. You want to come?”

He doesn’t call her Natalia anymore, except for occasionally in bed. He did, when they met—again—he was the only one who called her that, and she found it very endearing, but as their relationship went on, it made less and less sense for him to call her by her formal name in public (though she still does it to him—but then, she’s less self-conscious than he is). He still uses it in bed, though. Hearing her impersonal, proper name used while she’s on the verge of coming apart... she’s not sure what it means, that it’s such a turn-on, and she’s not sure she wants to explore it.

He's barely making contact with her flesh, just a ghost of a touch, but she's so primed that it doesn't take much. Her first orgasm is barely even satisfying, just some fluttering against his fingers, her cunt clenching around nothing. She gasps through it and urges him with her hips to keep going, even after the pulsing stops, but he wipes his fingers off on his pants and kisses her forehead.

“Let’s take this to the shower, shall we?” he asks.

For her part, Natasha is perfectly willing to stay on top of this dresser and let him finger her for hours, but a shared hot shower does sound nice, now that she thinks about it. She strips herself out of her bra and underwear and heads to the bathroom ahead of him.

A minute later, James appears naked in the doorway. She ogles him unabashedly—he's like a piece of art, with that body. The tight pecs, the patch of dark chest hair between them and the line of hair leading down from his belly to his groin, where his penis is half-erect but still impressive. And those thighs... they could give the Greek Discobolus a run for its money.

He’s asked a question. “What?” she says. 

“Condom?” he repeats. 

She points. “Medicine cabinet. Although...” They used a condom the other night, but everything was so quick, they didn't have time for a discussion. “I haven't been with anyone since you. Any chance...?”

“Me, neither.” He grins, sliding his arm around her waist and pulling her in close. They're both naked now, skin touching skin along the lengths of their bodies, and she loves it.

“Come on.” She walks backwards, taking him into the shower with her, and turns on the stream. 

They're met with a freezing spray of water in their faces, and they both squeal and grab each other and laugh, but the water warms up quickly. 

Her shampoo is Italian and very expensive, and it feels fabulous having James work it into her scalp. He follows it up with a neck massage, and the two of them lather each other up with body wash, which will stay on him for hours, marking him with her scent. Once they’re rinsed off, she drops to her knees in front of him.

“Oh,” James breathes, though she hasn’t done anything yet.

The soapy water pools around her feet before running down the drain. She looks up, sets her palms on his thighs, feeling the hard muscle under her hands. His dick sticks out in front of him, bobbing back and forth. Without hesitation, she licks her lips and takes him into her mouth, letting the head slide back along her palate. She works her tongue over him, enjoying his reaction, his twitches, his gasps and groans.

It's not that she minds giving a performance. She knows that the picture she makes below him adds an extra something to the experience for him, and knowing that she's turning him on turns her on as well, to the point where she has to squeeze her legs together for relief. It’s not just the show, though—she genuinely likes the feel of him in her mouth, the haptic sensation of smooth, hard cock against her taste buds.

She keeps her movements shallow and enthusiastic—she has no interest in deep-throating and rarely does it—paying close attention to the tensing of his thighs under her hands, the way he rocks back and forth on the balls of his toes, his inhales and his exhales and the frantic whispers of her name. Meanwhile, the stream of water runs down their bodies in rivulets, warm and relaxing, and she feels like she could stay in this shower with him forever.

Before he can reach the point of no return, James tangles his fingers in her wet hair and gently pulls her off of him. “Come here.” He extends a hand and helps her to her feet. “Gotta be inside you.”

Natasha looks around, calculating the best position for this. There are no seats in the stall, no handles on the wall, and she wants to be facing him. So it’ll have to be... “One second.” She slides the shower door open and reaches for the towel she’s got hanging nearby, then throws it over the top of the more sturdy part of the door, to use as padding. Then she reaches up and grips the top of the partition tightly, pulling herself up and wrapping her thighs around his waist and pulling him in close.

He palms the outside of her thighs, running his hands up and down them, making her shiver, then he gets his hands underneath her legs and spreads them out wide, pinning her with his hands against the shower door. Her legs are stretched to their fullest capacity, and her empty passage throbs, the stretch heightening her need.

“Let me move,” she grouses. “Come on, give me some support, I need to—I need to _move_ , need you inside me.” He cooperates, putting his left elbow against the shower door and turning his forearm a makeshift shelf, proving once again how a bionic arm can be useful in the most unexpected of ways. With his right arm, he cups her cheek and leans in to kiss her. As his tongue slips into her mouth, she uses her arms to maneuver herself and lower herself onto him. She moves slowly, dragging him inside of her inch by inch, until she’s fully seated on him.

Without breaking the kiss, Natasha leans her body back, giving him more of her weight. He slides his right hand up the back of her neck, holding her close, and her wet hair hangs around them, creating a cocoon for the two of them. She continues sliding up and down on him, hearing her own breath grow ragged at the combination of effort and pleasure.

“You’re exquisite,” he says into her mouth. “I love you. Love you so much. I never thought...” his voice trails off, leaving the rest unsaid.

She slows her movement and then stills entirely. “I’m sorry,” she says, wanting to cry, imagining what it must have been like for him to remember all this while she went on with her life, blissfully ignorant.

“ _I’m_ sorry.” She doesn’t know if he’s referring to not rescuing her in time, for losing faith, for letting her go, but she doesn’t want him to be sorry, any more than he wants her to be sorry, probably. It’s over.

“I love you,” she says, and starts to move again.

It’s so _right_. It always is with them, no matter what else is going on in their lives. She remembers their first time, back when they were both tools of the KGB, their first attempts at resistance, the tiny act of defiance that proved that they were still human under all that conditioning. And their first time after they met each other again, as American heroes. Even then, they were hiding their relationship from the authorities, what with her being a S.H.I.E.L.D.-sponsored Mighty Avenger and him being the unregistered, unsanctioned Captain America. This is also a first—hopefully they won’t need another one.

She snaps back to the present at the feel of his right hand splayed across her lower belly. He gives her a final soft kiss before pulling back, switching his focus to the movement of his hand as he slides it down into her pubic hair, thumb working its way into her folds, playing with the edges of her lips, then settling on top of her clit. Natasha gasps. “James!”

He looks up at her for a split second, gives her a quick, naughty grin, then turns his attention back at his hand on her. He looks like a laborer, a tinkerer, concentrating on his task, which in this case is pressing his thumb to her clit, applying varying amounts of pressure at unpredictable intervals in order to drive her crazy. “I’ve got you, beautiful,” he says, stepping even closer to her. “Hold on to me.”

She keeps her grip on the towel but relaxes her arms, letting him take over the hard work. James starts to thrust his hips, driving in and pulling nearly all the way out, filling her up, stretching her out. She watches his face as he watches where they’re joined, seeing him move in and out of her, and his thumb still pressed against her clit. He picks up the pace, and now she’s not sure if that sound rushing in her ear is the water from the shower or her racing heart. The pressure inside her climbs and builds to a crescendo—

“Come for me, Natalia,” he says in a husky voice, and he pushes inside her again, and she does, her muscles contracting around him; he follows her over the edge a moment later. They both bury their heads in each other’s necks, collapsing and holding the other one up. She loses herself and finds herself in him every time, her James, her love, her star.

After, she slides her legs back to the floor until she’s standing upright, then shakes out her arms and puts them around his neck. He responds by curving his hands around her upper arms, stroking up and down her biceps. “My girlfriend is a _beast_ ,” he brags.

“Yeah, she’s not bad.” Natasha shrugs, trying on some faux-modesty. She’s not sure how well she pulls of the nonchalant act, considering the fact that she has semen running down the inside of her thigh. “Hand me the showerhead?”

She rinses herself off, then turns off the shower, and he reaches behind her for the towel, but half of it is all wet from being in range of the showerhead. “Got any others?” he asks.

“Yeah, let me find them.” She squeezes out her hair and steps out of the shower, onto the bath mat. The linen closet is sparse, since this isn't her actual home, but she has a few spare towels, and she makes her way across the room, leaving wet footprints on the floor, to retrieve them.

Rather than leave another set of footprints on the white tile, she dries herself off where she is and tosses a second towel to James. Getting a comb out from one of the baskets on a lower shelf, she starts working out the knots in her hair, finishing up with that just as James approaches her from behind and puts his hands on her shoulders.

Natasha turns around to face him. “We just cleaned ourselves up,” she points out.

“Oh, I'd be happy to get you just a little bit cleaner,” he says, and so she allows him to pick her up in a bridal carry, towel and all, bring her back into the bedroom, and toss her onto the bed. She puts her hands behind her head, waiting for his next move, and he makes a gesture with his fingers, pointing his forefinger and middle finger at her and then drawing them apart, indicating what he wants her to do. She smiles in anticipation and spreads her legs, and he gets down onto the bed, fitting his shoulders in between her thighs. She can feel his breath against her, warm and stirring.

“Oh, good,” Natasha says dryly. “I was worried you’d forgotten about this.”

James traces a line up her cunt with his hot tongue, then lifts his head. “Forgotten about this?” He sounds scandalized. “Forgotten?” Two fingers inside of her. “About.” He leans down, uses his thumb to push up the hood of her clit, puts his lips around it and applies suction.

“Fuck!” It's so, so good. Her lower body turns into jelly, just melts, as he paints the underside of her clit with his tongue while pressing up towards her g-spot with his fingers, stimulating from both front and back. She can't hold out, she can't stand this any longer, she _can't_ —

She comes. His fingers inside of her, his mouth sealed over her clit, her entire cunt already so sensitive from the first two orgasms, she cries out and comes in all directions at once, the waves wracking her body and leaving her a boneless, exhausted heap.

The next thing she knows, she’s fallen asleep without a word, which is terribly rude, even for her. Her eyes pop open. “Oh, shit.”

James, having crawled up next to her, is awake, and he gives her a confused look. “What?”

“How long have I been out?” she asks.

He starts to laugh.

“What?”

He fits his body next to hers, lying on his side. “How long do you think you’ve been out?”

Looking out the window doesn't help, because it faces west, and it’s not _that_ late. And it's not like she spends enough time in this room to have bothered putting in a clock. She throws out a guess. “Half an hour?”

“Half a minute, maybe,” he says.

“Oh.” She shifts into her side to face him, takes his left hand in both of hers and brings it to her chest, cuddling it like a metal teddy bear. “Well, that’s definitely not enough sleep.”


End file.
